Grab and Go
by Kelmin
Summary: Complete! Chapter 9: Roy, part 2. Companion piece to "I don't really like parties all that much anyway." Tag for S.4 Ep. 6: Surprise. Johnny was still in that building when it blew. We see his rescue from various points of view.
1. Chet

Companion piece to "I don't really like parties all that much anyway." This story will make much more sense if you read that first.

Disclaimer: This story is for fun, and not for profit. That's what my day job is for. So, I'll just have to keep doing this, even though I don't own the characters. Universal Studios and Mark VII productions do. The situations in the first four paragraphs are from Season 4 Episode 6, "Surprise," by Preston Wood.

**Grab and Go**

**Chapter 1**: **Chet**

I was trying to get everyone out of my way so I could run a 2-1/2 to the main entrance. Some people, I swear! This one lady was more worried about all the "things" she had to do than the fact that her building was about to blow up if she didn't get the hell out of my way.

Just as I got to the entrance, Roy called out for me to bring a stretcher. I ran back down the front steps of the building, grabbed the light-weight folding stretcher, and ran back in. I heard Gage and Roy shouting to each other through the stairwell, so I ran to where Roy's voice was coming from. The smell of gas was unbelievable – it must've been a huge leak in the main gas line or somethin'.

The old lady looked like she weighed practically nothing. If it hadn't been for her bad hip, it would've been a cinch to do a one-man carry down the stairs and out of the building. She kept telling us "Just let me be, I don't want to go," but that wasn't an option, of course. We gently placed the woman on the stretcher. Roy kept trying to reassure her, but she wasn't buyin' it. I didn't get it – why would she want us to leave her?

Five seconds slower and we woulda bought the farm. That place blew like the Hindenburg, about one second after we got down the steps. Roy and I ducked, with our victim, behind a beaut of a classic old car, shielding the woman from the falling debris. As soon as we could, we took her to a safe zone across the street. The whole time, Roy was frantically calling to Cap – "Gage is in there! Johnny's still in there!"

Of course, Cap knew that already. Part of his job as incident commander was to know who was in and who was out. He _always_ knows where _all_ his men are. If he doesn't, and it's our fault – that's a major screw-up.

Cap immediately called Marco for a grab-and-go. Cap got masked up faster than I've ever seen anyone do it before.

It didn't look good for Gage. Man, that place just _**went**_ – fireballs on every floor. If he wasn't already near the bottom of the staircase – well, I didn't wanna think about it. Roy had already called in to Rampart that we had a Code I, condition unknown, who was being extricated from a burning building.

I tried to help Roy with our victim – I don't think I was doing much good. I don't think Roy was much good either. He kept lookin' at the building every coupla seconds, probably wondering whether he was gonna have three, two, one, or zero people to treat. Best case scenario was one victim – no way anyone who was in that place when it blew was gonna walk out unscathed. Worst-case scenario – not goin' there. Not yet.

I was antsy – real antsy. It was supposed to be _**me**_ in there with Marco, not Cap. But there wasn't time for Cap to find out whether or not Roy really needed me, so he made the snap decision to turn the incident over to Captain Riley from 60's and do the grab-and-go himself. Luckily, all our victim needed was reassurance and TLC. It's a good thing, too, since I'm useless as a medic.

I think it took less than a minute for Cap and Marco to come out. 60's linemen had a fog pattern going on the front entrance, and Cap and Marco burst right out, carrying what looked like a rag-doll in a turnout coat. They ran him right over to the safe zone and set him gently down a couple of yards from the old lady, who was still moaning softly that we shoulda let her be.

Roy was practically panicked. He's always the calm, cool, and collected one. Not then, though. He started frantically checking Johnny over, muttering to himself as he peeled Johnny's eyelids back and checked his pupils, and took the initial set of vitals.

All I could tell was that he was breathing, he didn't look burned, his face was all bloody, and, oh yeah, one more thing – something was _way_ wrong with his right leg. His foot was flat on the ground, and his leg was bent – but not at the knee.

Roy checked Johnny's upper body and left leg for fractures – it didn't seem like he found anything, 'cause he went straight for his blunt scissors and zipped them up Johnny's right pants leg. I made damned sure I wasn't looking when he did that. I also didn't look to see who was puking.

Gage was starting to come around. "Aw, shit, Chet – hold 'im down. _Now_, Chet, **NOW**!" Roy never swears.

I threw my entire body weight over Johnny's midsection. In the position I was in, I couldn't avoid seeing his leg. It was bloody, and there was bone. I'm no medic, but I know you're not supposed to see bone, and when you do? It's bad.

Johnny was really waking up. He had his arm thrown over his face, just like when he's sleeping. But he wasn't sleeping. Poor bastard.

Roy was taking Johnny's right shoe off as he started barking out orders, and believe me, we all followed 'em to the letter. Stoker was arriving – Riley must've stood our station down. Good man.

"Marco, biophone! Somebody get me the splint box – NOW! Rampart, this is Squad 51, how do you read?"

Doc Brackett must've been right there waiting. "Loud and clear, go ahead, 51."

"We have our Code I. He was unconscious upon extrication from a building involved in a gas explosion but is now semiconscious. Vitals are: respirations 28, pulse 130, BP 100/70. Pupils are equal and reactive. Swelling and bleeding apparent at occipital protuberance, some minor facial lacerations. Compound tib-fib, right side, moderate bleeding but with no arterial spurting and good pedal pulse. GUYS, HOLD HIM DOWN, GODDAMMIT! Rampart, patient's consciousness level is increasing and he appears to be having extreme pain, and Rampart," Roy's voice was breaking, "oh God, I can't give him anything, can I?"

"Negative, 51. Start a large-bore IV, lactated Ringer's, wide open. Irrigate the wound with normal saline, immobilize the fracture, and transport as soon as possible."

Roy was already dumping a bottle of saline over the place where the bone was sticking out. Me and Stoker held Johnny's shoulders down, Marco had his left leg, and Cap was at his head. Roy had the hardest job, cause every time he did anything Johnny just screamed louder. The scary thing was that he wasn't even screaming _at _anyone.

I was hoping to God that he wouldn't remember any of this.

Roy was working as fast as he could, which was not fast enough for anyone. Especially Gage, and especially Roy himself. The tears were streaming down Roy's face. Roy always was telling Johnny not to get emotionally involved, but how do you _not_ get emotionally involved with a patient when he's your partner and your best friend?

I guess Stoker underestimated Johnny's strength. He was trying to keep the arm with the IV pinned down, but Johnny still managed to rip it out.

After about five years, Roy said, "Load him up."

And he sat there on the ground, with his hands over his ears, while the Mayfair attendants loaded Johnny into the wagon.

I let Roy sit for a few seconds. But not too long. I reached down, took his hand, and helped him to his feet.

"He needs you, Roy. Go take care of Johnny. We'll all meet you there."

Roy pulled himself together, wiping the backs of his hands over his eyes. He let out a shaky breath, and without saying a word, turned, and climbed into the back of the ambulance with Johnny.

**TBC**

R&R greatly appreciated! Thanks!

Up next: a different point of view.


	2. Marco

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. Universal Studios and Mark VII productions do. This story is a tag for Season 4 Episode 6, "Surprise," by Preston Wood.

Ch. 2: Marco

I could smell the gas as soon as we turned the corner. It must have been a big leak – maybe the gas main going into the building – 'cause it was real thick.

Cap sent me to shut off the utilities. It was a really old building, so I wasn't even sure where to look. Luckily, the manager, Mr. Haley, was there, so he told me where to go. Surprisingly, for such an old place, there were modern shut-offs for the gas and electric. Looked like he really kept it up well. Too bad.

I was just starting to get out the ventilation fan when it happened. _Gracias a Dios_, I was still well away from the front entrance when that fireball came shooting out. We'll probably never know what touched off the explosion, but it was violent. I'd never seen such a fireball from a residential structure before, in all my ten years with the department.

The first thing I heard after my ears stopped ringing from the explosion was Captain Stanley shouting my name. "Marco, grab-and-go, NOW!"

All that could mean was that one of my brothers was still in there. It could only be Gage – Mike would be with the truck, and I'd just seen Chet and Roy duck behind a car with a stretcher. Chet? Why was Chet with Roy? No time to think. Just GO.

I masked up faster than I ever had, but not as fast as Cap. By the time I was ready, he already had more extrication tools than I thought one man could hold. I took half, and we ran in, under the cover of a fog pattern 60's were setting up at the entrance. I said Hail Marys silently as we started a standard search pattern.

I didn't think we would find him. I definitely didn't think we would find him so fast. But somebody up there must have been watching out for Gage, because there he was, in a heap at the bottom of the stairs – right in front of us in the lobby of the building. I nearly stepped on him.

Captain Stanley must have seen him at the same time as I did, because he went straight for Gage's head. Down the hall, away from the windows, I could see tongues of flame licking across the ceiling. We had to get out of there – fast. Cap knew it too – I couldn't hear what he was saying, but we both knew we had to move fast. Faster than fire.

No time to bundle him up nicely and carry him out in a Stokes. Grab and go is exactly what it sounds like. Cap had already grabbed Gage under the arms. I tried to get his legs, but something wasn't right there. No choice – life and death. Had to grab his legs anyhow, even though it felt all wrong. Maybe someday someone will put handles on turnouts so we don't have to figure out where to grab onto. I tried not to look. No time to think about what was going on with those legs anyhow. Too busy trying to get us out alive before the whole place flashed.

The first explosion was just the gas. We were all getting ready for the next one that we knew was coming soon. I expected to be thrown out of the building, not to run out through the fog. As we came out of the fog from 60's hoses, I could see Cap's jacket steaming. I could tell from the heat on my neck that I was steaming too. Didn't matter, though – had to get Johnny to safety.

We ran him over to Roy. As I set him down, I could see that he was out cold, but breathing. I was pretty sure he was still alive when I picked him up – I thought I felt him breathing, but I wasn't sure. Especially after Roy cut off Johnny's pants leg, I could also see how just bad his leg was.

Bad.

I could hear static in my ears, and could see my vision starting to close in, and feel my stomach starting to heave. Rather than fall down, I stripped off my steaming turnout coat and dropped to my knees and, well, luckily Mama always says that rhododendrons like a nice acid soil, cause me and my stomach weren't getting along.

Someone else was throwing up, or maybe trying not to throw up, in the next bush over. The helmet on the ground had a skunk stripe on it. Usually it's Stoker that pukes. I guess maybe he had a good reason to study extra hard to be an engineer. Lucky guy is still over there by the truck.

I heard my name: "Marco, biophone!" I got it, and set it down by DeSoto.

A hand grabbed my shoulder, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

"It's bad, huh," Stoker said quietly.

"Yep," I replied.

"You were fast. Real fast. Never doubt that you saved his life."

I knew we had. But I also knew, that in order to be fast, we couldn't be careful. And if you're not careful with bad fractures, you can make them worse. I couldn't remember – if I even actually saw it in the first place – what his leg looked like before I grabbed him by it. Was the bone already through the skin, or did I do that? Was it already bent like there was an extra knee, or did I do that, in haste and carelessness? Could I have been more careful? Mea culpa. Logically, in my brain, I knew I had to grab him and go. But in my heart, I couldn't stop asking: Did I do this?

Johnny was coming around. Roy made us all hold him down. In penance for anything I had done to his bad leg, I took his good leg – the one with only one bend in it. Even the good leg was covered with blood – the pants leg soaked with sticky, warm syrup. Nobody else should have to be down here, so close to the leg that maybe I made worse. Saline and blood splashed my face as Roy rinsed the wound.

Roy's hands were shaking as he splinted Johnny's leg. I'd never seen his hands shake before when he was working on a patient. Sometimes I called him Steady Freddy, since he's always so calm. You'd have to be to work with Gage day in and day out.

Roy finally finished the splint job. Not that he took his time.

Even though Johnny had, mercifully, passed out again by the time Roy was done, Roy sat on the ground looking defeated and shaken, till Chet helped him up.

And I sat on the ground, looking at my hands, red with Johnny's blood. Mea maxima culpa.

**TBC**

A/N: Marco wanted handles. Now, he'd have them. The NFPA 1971 _Standard on Protective Ensembles for Structural Fire Fighting_, now (2007 edition) requires a DRD (drag rescue device) to be built into every new turnout coat.


	3. Old Woman

Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. Universal and Mark VII do. I intend no infringement and make no profit.

Chapter 3: Old Woman

Last week, I decided it was time for me to die. I decided I would stop eating, stop drinking, stop getting out of bed except to use the toilet. It was time for me to be done with life. After all, I had already had twice as many years as anyone else in my family.

I felt that I was getting close to the end. Was I smelling gas because that was what had killed the rest of my family, so long ago, only yesterday, at Treblinka? Was I so near the end, at last? No, it was not to be so.

I felt sorry for the nice young man who insisted on helping me out of the building. I told him to leave me be, I didn't want to go. But he would not listen to me. He asked me if I could walk; I lied and said no, hoping he would have to leave me. I was ready to die. But instead, he and another young man carried me out on a litter of sorts, protecting my useless shell from the flying debris with their own young bodies.

And oh, the sadness I felt when two other firemen brought the injured young man and laid him gently on the grass, not far from me. Did my selfish desire to find peace cause their even younger friend to be caught inside the building? I hoped not – though I feared so.

**TBC**

A/N: This character was played by Celia Lovsky, who was immediately recognizable by Star Trek fans as T'Pau from the episode Amok Time, also directed by Joseph Pevney, who directed "Surprise."


	4. Mike

A/N: Parts of this chapter will only make sense if you've read "I don't really like parties all that much anyway," as it deals with something ex-canon brought up in that story.

Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. Universal and Mark VII do. I intend no infringement and make no profit.

Chapter 4: Mike

It's times like these that I regret becoming an engineer.

One of my buddies was in that place when it blew, and there was not a damned thing I could do about it. I watched, helplessly, since I was tied to my engine, ready to turn dials and monitor pressure gauges, for hoses nobody was even gonna use.

Helplessly. It's an interesting word. Usually when I used that word, I meant there's no help _for_ me. But, at that moment, in my mind the word also meant no help _from_ me.

I watched Captain Stanley reeling backwards as the building blew. It wasn't from the shock wave. I couldn't see his face, but I knew how hard he takes it when one of his men is hurt.

"Riley! Take over!" he shouted to 60's captain, running over to our company's engine. He didn't even look my way as he grabbed his SCBA tanks and mask. He knew my place, and so did I.

"Marco! Grab-and-go! NOW!"

There was nothing I could do but watch as two of my closest friends ran into a burning building to, hopefully, bring out another of my friends. And I wasn't doing a thing. Hell, our lines weren't even charged. So I just stood there like a useless piece of furniture while Cap and Marco ran into a burning building to pull out Johnny.

Gage.

When I signed up for the academy, I swore to myself that I'd never look at any of my fellow firemen "that way." One reason was we're like a bunch of brothers in the fire station, so brothers was the only way to see 'em. Then there's the obvious reason – I didn't really want to get my ass kicked six ways to Sunday.

Mostly, it worked. Not with him, though. Even though I knew perfectly well which team he played for – not mine.

"Stoker?"

It was Captain Riley from 60's. Could he tell what I had been thinking? Nah. Nobody ever could. Mr. Inscrutable, that's me. Good at keeping my mouth shut, too.

"Sir?"

"I'm standing 51s down. Second alarm is here. Go take care of your boy." He clapped me on the back as I gratefully shut down the pumps, just in time to see Cap and Marco running back out of the building. Miracle of miracles, they had him. I watched in horror as they carried a lifeless-looking, limp body from the building. It must've been damned hot in there – they were only in for about a minute, but when Cap and Marco came through the cooling fog their turnout coats were steaming.

I ran over to the rest of the crew. I wouldn't be much use – they all knew blood made me puke or pass out – but when one of your guys is down, you go. It's just what you do.

Cap and Marco had set Johnny down in the triage area, which so far only had the old lady that Roy and Chet had carried out. I put on my heavy gloves and helped Cap and Marco out of their steaming coats – no sense in their getting steam-burned necks.

Cap just stood there, chest heaving, catching his breath. It looked like he'd had most of Johnny's weight when they carried him out of the building.

The woman that Chet and Roy had brought out looked frail, but uninjured. Johnny, on the other hand... His face was covered in blood, helmet missing, as usual, and something was really wrong with his right leg. I couldn't really see how bad it was till Roy cut his pants leg all the way up. Oh, God.

Marco didn't look so good – he headed straight for the bushes. Man, I knew what that felt like, but usually he didn't have that problem. Wonder what was going on this time.

I looked away – no sense in having two of us barfing in the bushes. No, make that three. _**Cap**_? I couldn't totally catch what he said before he ran for the shelter of a rhododendron, but it sounded like "Aw, Smitty, not again." What the hell? Who's Smitty?

Marco was out of the bushes just in time to hear Roy shout for him to get the biophone.

"Marco, biophone! Somebody get me the splint box – NOW! Rampart, this is Squad 51, how do you read?"

"Somebody." That was my cue – always the invisible one, in the background. But now, at least, I had something to do. Marco and I met up at the squad, grabbing the items we'd been ordered to retrieve, and ran like sixty back to Roy. Marco set the biophone up next to Roy, and just stood there. I didn't know where to look – I couldn't bear to look at Gage. Marco was looking at Gage weirdly – what was going on there? He looked like he was about to pass out.

I took his shoulder to steady him, and he jumped a mile high. If I didn't know better, I'd've thought he was feeling guilty about something. How could you feel guilty about running into a burning building to save someone, and getting them out alive?

"It's bad, huh," I empathized with him.

All Marco could manage was "Yep." He just kept staring at Johnny.

I felt I needed to reassure him, for some reason. Did he think he was too slow? Absurd. But that was all I could imagine, so reassure I did. "You were fast. Real fast. Never doubt that you saved his life."

But Marco didn't even seem to hear.

Neither of us could ignore Roy, though. "Guys, hold him DOWN, goddammit!"

I took the closest part I could grab – the arm with the IV. Roy was on the opposite side, now, pouring something over – okay, Mikey, just don't look. Don't think, don't look, don't listen – easier said than done.

I decided to look at the other guys instead of risking seeing something I didn't wanna see. Cap looked weird – really weird. He was mumbling to himself – something about "hang on, Smitty." Okay, I was starting to get really freaked out, between Gage's screaming and, in between, Cap's mumbling to someone who wasn't there.

So I went back to just concentrating on this arm. Needed to concentrate, anyhow, because that kid was wicked strong. He looked like a beanpole, but anyone who's seen him in action on the job knows that he's as tough as they come.

But how do you hold an arm down without hurting it, anyhow? Especially with an IV in the crook of the elbow. Chet's side is easier – he's got arm and shoulder pinned in a judo hold, but if I tried that, I don't know what the IV would do. So I grabbed his hand, to try to keep his arm straight. And darned if he didn't calm down, just a little bit, and stop fighting me.

But when Roy started the splint job, I lost my grip, and that IV just ripped right out. Not sure what it was supposed to be doing, anyhow, since they couldn't give him pain meds. I don't think Johnny was really awake – he never stops talking when he's awake. He seemed to want to put his hand over his face. Well, if that made him feel better, I wasn't gonna stop him. As long as the IV was out anyhow, I settled for holding him down at the shoulder.

Finally, finally, he passed out. It was like someone flipped a switch – one minute, it took four of us to hold him down, and the next, he was just plain shut off. For one horrible second I thought he'd died, but then I saw his chest rise in a shuddering breath, fall, and then rise and fall evenly. His skin was a greenish gray, instead of its usual beautiful tawny amber.

Roy finished splinting the fracture. Somehow, it looked even worse once it was splinted in position. But, that's what Rampart said to do, so that's what Roy did.

I tried to get Roy's attention to show him the ripped-out IV, but he was just sitting there, gray and shaking, with his hands over his ears. I was pretty sure the last thing he wanted to do was get into that ambulance for the ten-minute trip to Rampart. I don't blame him. But Chet helped him up, and sent Roy gently into Hell.

It's times like these that I'm especially glad I became an engineer.

**TBC**

A/N: I know, I know, not canon. Feel free to disagree! :) Also: thanks to Bamboozlepig for insights and comments. Any mistakes or things you don't agree with are of course mine.


	5. Cap

A/N: This chapter will only make sense if you've read "I don't really like parties all that much anyway," as it deals with something ex-canon brought up in that story.

Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. Universal and Mark VII do. I intend no infringement and make no profit.

Chapter 5: Cap

Gage was still in the building when it blew.

"Marco! Grab-and-go! NOW!" If we didn't get him out in the next two minutes, he didn't have a chance. This fire was no slowly smoldering lazy beast – it was a dragon on full throttle, started with a huge detonation of gas. This fire was going to get really hot, really fast.

As soon as I was masked up, I grabbed two men's worth of extrication tools and practically threw half of them at Marco. I could see his lips moving through his face mask – probably praying.

We started a standard search pattern – turned out to be as unnecessary as all our tools, since we found him, curled up in a heap, at the bottom of the stairs in the lobby. Looked like he'd been thrown down the staircase. Lost his helmet, for a change. When will that idiot learn to tighten the strap on that thing? Young guys - they think they're invincible. I knew better.

The lobby carpet was already outgassing and smoldering. Furniture was giving off smoke, even though it wasn't in flames. The heat was intense. The place could flash at any second.

I grabbed Gage under the arms, and heaved him up off the floor, as Marco took his legs. For some reason, Marco hesitated for a second – half a second, no more. Good thing, too, since as I backed out of the lobby I could see angel fingers, then rollover on the ceiling. We didn't have one second to spare.

Man, Gage was heavy. He looked like a gentle wind could knock him down, but anyone who's had to carry him knows better. By the time we got him over to Roy, I could barely breathe. It was easier to catch my breath once I saw Gage was breathing, too. I popped the seal on my mask and ripped it off so I could breathe normally. Someone was helping me get my steaming turnout coat off – Stoker. I realized my neck was steam-burned; no surprise considering how hot it was in that lobby.

As Roy began his initial assessment of Johnny, I could see why Marco hesitated at picking up Johnny's legs – his right leg was bent where it shouldn't have been. Roy grabbed his blunt-tipped scissors and slashed the pants leg in one swift movement. The bone gaped out of Johnny's leg.

And all of a sudden, I was back on Triangle Hill. 31st Regiment, Company D.

"Aw, Smitty, not again." He'd already died once, back in '52, stepping on a land mine. How could my buddy be dying again, when he was already dead? Didn't make any sense at all. Just like the first time, I could hear the raging noise of battle, smell the smoke and the cordite. And the blood.

I ran for cover, and puked my guts out. I couldn't help Smitty till I helped myself.

The medic had Smitty already. I didn't remember that – I thought Doc was killed _before_ Smitty stepped on the mine. I knew what to do, though, when someone's leg had been blown off, and you could see the raw, splintered ends of bone. I knew all I could do was hold him while he died, and tell him everything was gonna be okay. All I could do was lie, 'cause I knew he was a goner.

"Hang on, Smitty. You'll be fine. We'll get you to the aid station, and you'll be fine. Just hang on. Everything's fine." _Lies, lies, lies_.

Smitty was screaming and trying to flail – he didn't do _that_ the first time. Last time Smitty died, with bone sticking outta his leg, he just bled out, fast and quiet. Maybe when you've already been killed by a mine once, you know how bad it is the second time.

The medic was shouting at us. I didn't understand most of what he was saying, but one thing was clear: "GUYS, HOLD HIM _**DOWN**_, GODDAMMIT!" So we did. Funny, I didn't recognize the other guys – they musta been C-Company.

Then Smitty got quiet all of a sudden. I knew he would – after all, I'd been here before. Triangle Hill sucked down an awful lotta young lives that day.

The medic finally said, "Load him up."

And I just stood there, as the C-Company guys took my dead buddy away on a stretcher. I didn't wanna fight anymore. So I just stood there, and waited to get blown up.

A hand grabbed my shoulder. "Cap?" Who's he talking to? I'm just a corporal. Tallish fellow, blue eyes. Again: "Cap!" Now he's shaking me a little. He's got me mixed up with someone else.

"Hank!" Well, that was me for sure.

Oh.

Not Korea.

Not Smitty. Gage. _Shit_.

"Mike, uh, sorry. I uh..."

"You all right, Cap?"

"Um, Mike?"

"Yeah, Cap?"

"How was Johnny, just now, after Roy got him in the ambulance?" _Is he dead, or was that Smitty?_

"Still passed out from the splinting, Cap." _Splinting?Just passed out. Okay._

"All right." I tried to compose myself. All the other companies were hard at work knocking down that beast of a fire. There wasn't going to be much left of that building, that much was clear. What was I supposed to do next? Oh yeah.

I grabbed my HT, and said "51 to L.A., we are 10-7 to Rampart with our Code I."

"10-4, 51," replied dispatch.

I turned to my engineer, always calm, always there. He'll make a great captain someday.

"Mike?"

"Yeah, Cap?"

"Thanks."

He probably didn't have any idea what I was thanking him for, but he still said, "Any time, Cap."

**TBC**


	6. Brackett

Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. Universal and Mark VII do. I intend no infringement and make no profit.

Chapter 6: Brackett

As a physician, I can – and should – excuse myself from treating a patient who is a family member or a close friend. Sure, I always had acquaintances come through my ER. And of course, since I knew a fair number of firemen and police officers, people I knew via work came through Rampart as patients frequently. But I always knew, if it was just too much, that there were others who could take my place in giving care to people I was close to.

Not so for the paramedics. Every time I heard "Code I" on the radio, I knew that the paramedic on the other end of the conversation didn't have the luxury of that choice. Unless it was a major incident, and two squads were assigned to the scene, they'd be the only ones available to treat their friends. I was too young for Korea, and too old for 'Nam, but working with the paramedics gave me some insight into why men in the armed forces were so protective of their medics.

And when Roy DeSoto called in that they were extricating a Code I from a burning building, I could hear in his voice that it was one of their own – not someone from another company.

There's a strict protocol that only one paramedic from the two-man team converses with the base station for a given incident, unless circumstances require the other man to convey something. It's just too confusing to have two people relaying what could potentially be identical or conflicting information. So the rule is one call, one unit, one voice. So, all I knew was that it wasn't Roy.

I waited at the base station, not knowing which of five men I knew was trapped in a burning building. While I waited, I thought about friends that Roy and John had lost. Friends who were alive when they came into the hospital, but who died in Rampart's care.

Drew Burke, who they had actually treated at the scene – with the paramedics' training, they could tell it was going to be touch and go no matter what they did. Tim Duntley, whose only mistake was handling a pet monkey.

I was hoping fervently that there would not be another name added to that list.

Quickly enough that I held onto some hope that Roy would have a living patient to treat, I heard his voice come back on the base station radio.

"_We have our Code I. He was unconscious upon extrication from a building involved in a gas explosion but is now semiconscious._"

Possible brain injury – never a good way to start.

"_Vitals are: respirations 28, pulse 130, BP 100/70. Pupils are equal and reactive. Swelling and bleeding apparent at occipital protuberance, some minor facial lacerations._"

Pulse and respirations too high, BP too low. Definitely have to use TBI protocol, even though the pupils are okay for now. Who _was_ it, damn it? I could hear some moans, but couldn't tell from the voice who it was.

"_Compound tib-fib, right side, moderate bleeding but with no arterial spurting and good pedal pulse"_

A bad injury, no matter how you looked at it, but it didn't sound like it was life-threatening – no spurting meant he probably wouldn't bleed out from it.

"_GUYS, HOLD HIM DOWN GODDAMMIT! Rampart, patient's consciousness level is increasing and he appears to be having extreme pain, and Rampart_," Roy's voice was breaking, "_oh God, I can't give him anything, can I?_"

Roy, the calm one. Now his patient was screaming in agony, but Roy and I both knew that with a potential brain injury, painkillers that would actually do anything were out of the question.

"Negative, 51. Start a large-bore IV, lactated Ringer's, wide open. Irrigate the wound with normal saline, immobilize the fracture, and transport as soon as possible." Useless words – Roy knew what to do, but I was legally obligated to say them.

I could sense someone beside me.

"Do we know who it is, Kel?" Joe asked somberly.

I shook my head in frustration. "I'm pretty sure it's one of 51's own."

I rubbed my brow, and turned to the nurse. "Nurse, set up Treatment 3 for multiple trauma, get portable x-ray, and page the on-call orthopedist." I wished it was Dix assisting me, but she was upstairs for overnight observation. I wondered how fast the Rampart Rumor Express would get her the news that one of her boys was coming in.

I turned my attention back to the base station microphone. "51, what's your ETA?"

No response. Sometimes they can't respond right away – if they're getting the patient in the ambulance, for instance, or if their hands are busy at the moment. I tried again.

"51, do you have an ETA?"

"_ETA ten minutes. Update: patient is en route. He lost consciousness during the splinting procedure. Pupils continue to be equal and reactive. Vitals are stable. Estimated total blood loss less than 500cc_."

"10-4, 51. I want an update when there's any change."

"_10-4 Rampart. I'll keep the channel open._"

Good – that way I could hear anything that was happening, and I knew Roy would verbalize anything important.

I could hear the patient starting to regain consciousness again.

"_Johnny? Take it easy, Junior_." Aaaah, shit. No wonder Roy sounded so upset. "Rampart, victim is regaining consciousness."

"10-4, 51. Try your best to keep him still."

"_Johnny, you gotta settle down, partner, I know you're really hurting, but you gotta try not to move._"

As a physician, you get inured to the sounds patients make when they're in pain. You have to – you can't let their agony sway your treatment. But it's totally different when your patient is not a faceless stranger. And I was really feeling for Roy.

"_Rampart, new vitals: pulse 140, BP 150/90, respirations 45 and shallow. Patient not tolerating face mask for O2, request permission to switch to nasal cannula._"

"10-4, 51, five liters O2 by nasal cannula." Knowing Gage, "not tolerating" probably meant he was trying to rip it off his face. It wasn't such a good sign, because if he really knew what was going on, he would leave the mask alone. It _was_ a good sign that he was strong, though I would have preferred to have a better O2 delivery method.

Over the open channel, I could hear Johnny becoming more lucid, screaming to Roy to give him something for the pain. Over and over, Roy would explain that he'd been unconscious from a head injury, and had a probable concussion, and that he couldn't do anything. Over and over, Johnny shouted "October 18th, 1974, Gerald Ford, gas explosion" to try to convince Roy he wasn't concussed. He issued some profanities I'd never even heard, but Roy deflected all this abuse by trying to reassure Johnny as calmly as possible that they were nearly at Rampart. I could hear from Roy's voice that he was getting to the end of his rope.

"What have you got, Kel, MVA?" A voice behind me interrupted my attention to the goings-on in the ambulance. There wasn't much I could do till they got here, anyhow. It was Geoff Henry, from Ortho.

"Thanks for coming down so fast, Geoff. No, it's a fireman – one of my paramedics, actually – who was just in a gas explosion. Compound tib-fib, according to the other paramedic. Sounds like he's concussed, but lucid, and it doesn't sound like there are other serious injuries."

"Okay, I'll alert OR to set up for a reduction if needed. Can you tell how serious it is?" said Henry.

I relayed what Roy had reported – the good pulse in the foot and the lack of apparent arterial bleeding were very good signs, all things considered.

"I've got Treatment 3 set up for him, Geoff."

"Okay, Kel; I'll be in there." Geoff Henry had an immensely annoying habit of starting or ending nearly everything he said with "okay."

I could hear an ambulance's siren nearby; I hoped for Johnny's sake – and Roy's – that it was them.

It was. "Treatment 3!" I directed.

Roy looked gray and shell-shocked. Johnny was screaming in the way that clears out the ER waiting room every time. Anyone who can usually goes to get a cup of coffee when we have a screamer.

I took Roy by the shoulder. "Roy, go take a minute," I suggested.

As I'd anticipated, he shook his head. "Doc, I need to stay with him, please!"

I realized their bond, but I also could see that Roy was shaking and pallid. "Roy," I said gently, "you've done your job, and you've done it well. You need to take a break. I promise you I will get you to be with him the second that I can."

Roy nodded. He leaned into the wall outside Treatment 3. As the orderlies wheeled Gage past us into the room, Roy sank to the floor, with his head in his hands.

Gage was a mess – face covered in blood, one pants leg cut off, and of course the fracture. It was solidly splinted, with a 4x4 over the wound. Henry lifted it while I checked the rest of Gage over. He was a mess, but he was a stable mess. And, most fortunate of all, in my neurological exam I found no evidence of increased intracranial pressure.

I got right in his face to interrupt the stream of invective, now directed at me. "Johnny, listen to me! You're stable, and there's no sign of brain injury, so I'm going to get you something for the pain right now." His screams changed to sobs – no easier to listen to, but suggesting that he'd heard me.

Shit – no IV. I could see where it had been placed, and ripped out, likely by his struggling before he was really lucid. "Nurse, get me 10 milligrams MS." She was already there with the loaded syringe. Good woman. I prepped a vein – man has veins like ropes – and gave him five milligrams. The x-ray tech was setting up the portable machine.

"Johnny, you need to try to settle down your breathing." He was hyperventilating, which never helps in these situations. "Attaboy, you can do it." Good, respirations coming down. Two more milligrams in. Let that take effect. Respirations down to 30. Sobs turned into whimpers. He slowly relaxed his death grip on the edge of the gurney. Last three milligrams. John's eyes glazed over, but they finally sought out mine.

"Doc, I'm so screwed," he said hoarsely. "I saw it. It's bad, ain't it?"

I understood his concern. Realistically, this could be a career-ending injury. "John, compound fractures are never easy, but we don't even have x-rays yet. Let's take it as it comes."

He nodded, and asked, "Doc? Didja make Roy take a break?"

I smiled. "Well, I practically had to have the orderlies drag him away, but yes, he's been ordered to take a break."

"Tell him thanks."

"Why don't you tell him. He wanted to come in and see you – is that all right?"

He snorted. "I think I can stop cussin' at 'im, yeah. Was outta my head, Doc. Sorry," he slurred.

I smiled back. "Don't start with that. How 'bout if we get those pictures, and then I'll send Roy in?"

He nodded, eyelids drooping.

"All right, Johnny. I'll send him in when the x-ray tech comes out, and I'll leave you in the capable hands of Dr. Henry from Ortho."

His eyes were closed, and he didn't reply. I left him with the x-ray tech, and exited the room.

Roy was still on the floor in the hallway outside Treatment 3, slumped against the wall, hands over his ears and face between his knees. I crouched down in front of him, and touched his shoulder. "Roy?"

He started, and raised his tear-stained face. He slowly took his hands from his ears.

"He's going to be fine," I said, watching Roy's expression change to one of relief. It didn't matter to me whether it was my words, or the silence, but it was like watching a gray veil being lifted from his face.

**TBC**


	7. Dixie

**A/N:** Thanks to kathyb9760 for suggesting I do this POV.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own 'em. Universal and Mark VII do. I intend no infringement and make no profit.

**Chapter 7: Dixie**

What a stupid, ridiculous way to spend a birthday. Really, the most annoying thing was that I knew that the firemen were planning some kind of surprise, and my little shopping accident likely ruined it for them. I didn't want a fuss, anyhow, but I was still sorry to put a monkey wrench in their plans for fun. Those boys all needed more ways to let off steam, so it was too bad that I spoiled this one for them.

Oh, well. Maybe they can live it up a bit anyhow. Meanwhile, I'll try not to go insane spending a single night as a patient in my own hospital. Hmm, maybe I could put on a disguise and be like one of those "mystery shoppers" they send to stores to check them out. Nah, too much work.

Hum dee dum. TV? No, nothing good on. Magazine? Finished it. Book? Could start it, I suppose, but then when will I get a chance to finish it?

Oh, good, a visitor! Kel?

"Well hello, stranger! What brings you upstairs?"

He looked very serious as he pulled up a chair and sat down. Oh, he's probably going to "break the news" about the surprise party that I wrecked with my stupid accident.

"Dix, Roy DeSoto just brought Johnny in."

My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach. "How bad?" With firefighters, it could be anything from a sprained wrist to 3rd degree burns over 90% of the body, and anything in between.

"Compound tib-fib, mild concussion – considering he was in a building with a gas leak when the whole place blew up, it could've been a lot worse."

_Oh, Johnny._ "How bad is the leg?"

Kel gave his famous "concerned" look – most people's eyebrows can't do that. "Well, it's not clear yet – Geoff Henry is in with him now in the ER. He's going to go for a non-surgical reduction, first, to see if he can avoid putting in any hardware he'd have to take out later."

Right – with regular folks, the best way to fix a compound fracture would be a surgical reduction with plates and screws to hold everything together, but for some reason, the fire department wouldn't let people with internal hardware on active duty, even though the healing was usually better and faster that way. Idiots. Who was I to say, though. Maybe there's some reason I didn't get. Let's just assume so.

"Oh, Kel, this is going to be so hard for him, no matter how it turns out." Kel and I both knew perfectly well that this injury could end his career at worst, or lead to a long and painful recovery at best.

I had another unhappy thought. "How's Roy?"

Kel sighed heavily. "Not great, Dix. I took the call at the base station. We kept the channel open. John had a really rough time, a lot of pain, and was pretty confused for a while. It was really hard on Roy not to be able to do anything for Johnny's pain."

I eyed him suspiciously. "And could _you_, once he came in? Do anything?" He hides it well, but I know how much it affects him when patients are in pain – especially patients he knows.

"Eventually. Not soon enough for any of us. He did clear out the riff-raff and hangers-on from the waiting room, though."

He looked tired, and used up. "And how are _you_?" I asked pointedly.

"Well, to be honest, Dix, this one really got to me, even though I was only physically with the patient for less than ten minutes. I think what got to me was not just Johnny, but how everything affected Roy. I mean, if my best friend came in here seriously injured, I could and should choose not to treat him. Or her."

"You wouldn't choose not to, though, would you?" That wasn't really a question.

"That's not the point, Dix, don't you _see_?" He pounded the nightstand in frustration. "The point is, Roy had no choice at all. He was the only person on the scene who could do anything for Johnny, and the one thing he really wanted to do – the _**one thing**_ – was make his pain go away, but he couldn't. And he was the one who spent ten minutes on scene with him, splinted his leg, and rode in with him in the ambulance – all the hardest parts for Johnny, and Roy had _**no choice**_." He leaned forward, elbow on mattress, head on hand.

I took that hand. "You're not having doubts about the paramedic program again, after all this time, are you?" I didn't think that was really it at all, but I had to keep the door open for him.

"No, Dix; no way. It's just—aaah, I dunno. Sometimes I just get so tired. Don't you?" He held onto my hand, and rested his head on the bed next to mine, eyes closed.

"Yeah, Kel, I do. I do, too." I thought of Johnny, lying there in great pain in the ER, and Roy, in a different kind of pain, but of equal magnitude. One tear made its way past my eyelids. "I get tired, too."

**TBC**


	8. Roy, Part 1

Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. Universal and Mark VII do. I intend no infringement and make no profit.

**Chapter 8: Roy**

The tiled floor of the ER hallway was cold, and the wall of the corridor was hard. I didn't care, though. I was finally able to put my hands over my ears, to shut out the sound of Johnny's screams, and close my eyes – just for a second.

But as soon as my eyes were closed, all I could see in my head was pictures from that run in the ambulance, so I opened them again, and just stared at my knees.

I had a nagging feeling that there was something important I'd forgotten – did I leave some equipment behind? No, the other guys know what to look for, and I'm sure Cap had Chet pick up the equipment. Chet'll probably be here with the squad any time. The old woman that Chet and I carried out? Brackett had said she didn't need followup, so Mayfair transported her while I was working on Johnny.

Ohhh, no. That was it. Johnny ripped out his IV, and I forgot to put in a new one. Of all the stupid mistakes! Great going, DeSoto. Really, great job of detachment and professionalism. Now if he crashes they'll have to do a cutdown to get a line in. And since, thanks to me, he wasn't getting his fluids, it's more likely that he'll get shocky. Nice going.

I knew he didn't mean any of the stuff he was yelling at me in the ambulance. I grew up in a home where swearing of any kind was absolutely forbidden, and I still hadn't gotten used to some of the language you hear around the firehouse, let alone the absolutely foul stream of choice language my partner threw at me this afternoon. But I was starting to feel like maybe I deserved it. I didn't – couldn't – do anything useful for him, and certainly nothing pleasant. The one thing I could've done – make sure he still had the IV that any trainee would've noticed he'd pulled out – and I just plain forgot.

I knew Brackett would kill me when he figured it out, which would be happening right about now. I figured I'd just sit here in the hallway until he came out, and then I'd have to explain it to him. There oughta be a form for when we screw up, so we don't have to look someone in the eye and tell them we made a mistake with a patient.

There was a hand on my shoulder. I looked up, slowly – vision blurred, was I crying? Great, it's Brackett, coming to read me out for my screw-up. I looked him in the eye.

"He's going to be fine," said Brackett.

At first I didn't even understand what he said. I was expecting to be chastised, summoned to the office, have the law laid down for a colossal foul-up that could've cost a life.

"Fine?" I asked, dumbly.

"He'll be just fine," Brackett repeated. _Now? Will he chew me out now?_

"Why will he be fine?" I asked, not understanding why he hadn't lit into me yet. Oh yeah, maybe he wanted not to shout at me in the hallway. That must've been it. "Doc, maybe we should talk in your office."

Brackett stood up, and actually helped me to my feet. He took my arm and guided me to his office, with the famous concerned look on his face that only he can manage.

I flopped into a chair in front of his desk, ready to take whatever he planned to dish out.

"Roy, are you okay?" he asked.

"I screwed up big time, didn't I," I replied, as if that answered his question. "That's a mistake not even a fresh green trainee would make."

"Roy, _what_ are you talking about?"

I sighed in disgust. "He ripped his IV out, and I _forgot_ to put a new one in! Didn't you _notice_? I completely, totally _**forgot. **_I brought you a trauma patient that you'd ordered a wide-open IV on, he ripped it out, and _**I forgot to put it back in**_!"

"Whoa, whoa, Roy, slow down. Yes, it's true – you forgot. But you also brought me a patient who was stable, hadn't lost a lot of blood, and wasn't shocky. And – Roy, look at me –" _darn, I was trying to keep my eyes on the carpet_ – "and, you brought me a patient who was your partner and your best friend, and who was screaming in agony."

_No kidding. I was there._ "But I shouldn't have let that affect my treatment! It's still a mistake, Doc!"

"Yes, it was a mistake, but it wasn't a fatal mistake, or even one that caused any problems. And there were circumstances that contributed to your mistake. We had an open channel for the whole ambulance run, remember?"

I could only nod.

"Would you say your patient was distressed?"

Another nod.

"Would you say it was important to keep your patient as calm as possible, to prevent his movements from worsening his injury?"

Nod.

"Was there anything in the vitals you took, or any other observations you made, that suggested your patient was going into hypovolemic shock?"

I got to shake my head that time, for a change in pace.

"Would your patient have been able to cooperate with placing a new IV, without physical or chemical restraints?"

Another head shake.

"What makes you say that?"

I cleared my throat. "Well, he'd already ripped the O2 mask off, and I practically had to sit on him to keep him from trying to get up."

"So, now that you're sitting here, in this office, thinking about it while not under pressure, do you think you would have been able to restart that IV if you _had_ remembered?"

"Probably not," I was forced to admit. I wanted – no, needed – to hold onto my guilt, but Brackett wasn't going to let me.

"Roy, it's true, you made a mistake. You're human. I'm human – I make mistakes too."

"Yeah, but I made _this_ mistake on my best friend!" _Who might not have even gotten hurt if I hadn't sent him upstairs to check for occupants. No, I hadn't forgotten about that._

"You probably made the mistake partly _because_ he was your friend! For crying out loud, Roy, most of the time you were on your run, I was thinking how lucky doctors are to work in hospitals, where if someone we know comes in, we can hand their treatment off to someone else!"

I hadn't thought about that. Doctors weren't _supposed_ to treat family members or friends. But, in _our_ jobs, Johnny and I had to do it quite often. Probably once a month, there was something minor, and once a year we actually had to bring one of our shift-mates in for something more serious.

"Let it go, Roy. You've gotta let this one go."

I thought about that. I wasn't ready to let it go, but for now, I could let it drop.

"I'll try, Doc." I paused for a second. "Do you think he'll want to see me? I mean, he was—"

Brackett interrupted me with a glare. "Of course he will. In fact, one of the first things said was to make sure you took a break, and that he was sorry for cursing a blue streak at you."

I brightened. "He's talking?" _Not screaming?_

Brackett chuckled a bit. "Well, he's pretty sedated from the morphine, but he's oriented, for sure. If you want, we can go back in – I'm sure the x-ray tech is done getting the pictures."

Morphine. Thank god. I wished I'd been the one to finally give it to him, but at least he had it now.

"Yeah, Doc. Let's go see Johnny."

**TBC**

A/N: One more chapter to go – the rest of Roy's POV. Then I'll write something fun. I promise.


	9. Roy, Part 2

Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. Universal and Mark VII do. I intend no infringement and make no profit.

**Chapter 9: Roy, Part 2**

Doc Brackett and I walked the short distance from his office back to Treatment 3. I wanted to see Johnny, but I knew I just really couldn't handle seeing him in pain any more than I already had. I knew my limits, and I'd reached them. I hesitated at the door.

"Doc?"

Brackett looked inquiringly at me.

"Can you do me a favor? If the ortho guy isn't gonna knock him out to set his leg, can you get me outta there?" I felt like a wimp and a jerk for asking that, but I just couldn't do it. Not after putting Johnny through splinting his leg, not after the ambulance trip. No more.

"Yeah, Roy. I'll kick you out. That's a promise." Brackett smiled and opened the door.

"All right if we come in, Geoff?" he asked the orthopod. "Roy, this is Dr. Henry, the orthopedist."

"Sure, I'm just looking at the pictures now," said the orthopedist. "Okay, so you must be the partner," he said, eyeing my turnout gear.

"Yeah, tha's him arigh" slurred Johnny, hoarsely. "'s my buddy. 'sup, Roy?"

"Hey, Junior." I didn't really know what to say. "You doing better?"

"Oh, yah, loss ber. Loss." He pointed at Brackett. "He gamey morphine. Lossa morphine." He stared into space, eyes glazed.

"How much did you _give_ him?" I whispered to Brackett.

"Only ten milligrams, but it looks like it hit him pretty hard."

"I'll say." I wandered over to where the orthopedist was looking at the x-rays.

"Okay, did you do the splinting here. Mr., ah..."

"DeSoto, Roy DeSoto," I filled in for him. I had a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. _Did I screw that up too?_ "Yeah, I did," I admitted. "Is it okay?"

"Well, it's not just _okay_. Your splint job was, well, beyond perfect. See here," he pointed to a spot on the x-ray, "at the distal edge of the fracture? By supporting underneath there with the sandbags the way you did, you prevented any movement that might've let that end of the bone come out too."

Needless to say, I was greatly relieved by his pronouncement. "Thanks, Doc, that's a load off." I glanced over at Johnny, who was winning the staring contest with the ceiling. "So, uh, what now?" Not very intelligent, but he got the point.

"Well, I would like to try to avoid surgery and hardware, so I'm going to reduce it, put on a temporary cast with some mild traction, and see how it is after a couple of days," he said, still looking at the x-rays.

I paused, wondering how to phrase this. "Um, will you be able to make him, uh, comfortable, when you do that?"

"Oh, good heavens, I wouldn't do that when he was awake! I'll sedate him heavily – for all intents and purposes, he'll be unaware of what's going on, okay?"

I felt like the weight of Engine 51 had been lifted from my shoulders. "Okay," I agreed. I went back over to Johnny.

"Oh, hey, Roy! When'd you ge' here? Ya know wha'?"

"What, partner?"

"My leg is broke." Man, he was really out of it.

"Yeah, it is, Johnny. I was there, remember? I brought you in in the ambulance."

"No, don' member nuthin'." His eyes looked through me for a moment, then focused again. "Oh, no, I saida bad word, din' I," he said in dismay. "Sorry, man, sorry." He disappeared again for a couple of seconds. "Lotta cussin'. Sorry."

"Yeah, well, quit apologizing, all right?" Though it _was_ the understatement of the century. "Your only job now is to heal up."

He laughed. "Yer gonna ge' _Brice_!"

I groaned inwardly. He was probably right.

"Well, let's cross that bridge when we come to it, all right?" But he was probably right.

Doctor Henry came back over from the light boxes on the far side of the room.

"Mr. Gage?"

Johnny was still chuckling to himself. "Who, me?" he pointed to himself.

"Mr. Gage, we're going to set that leg now. I will be sedating you heavily for this procedure, so you shouldn't be aware of what's going on, and you won't remember anything. Would you like me to explain how this will work?"

Johnny waved him off. "Naw, seen it, jus' do it. Geddit over wih."

"Okay. I'll be giving you diazepam, which will sedate you and relax your muscles, to make it easier to get the ends of the bones where they belong. You should be a lot more comfortable after the bones are set."

"Tha's good. Goddam leg fuckin' hurss." He looked my way, and covered his mouth. "Oopssorrypal."

"Mr. DeSoto, would you care to assist me and Dr. Brackett? We could use another set of hands."

I must've turned an interesting shade, 'cause Brackett rescued me. "Geoff, I think Roy's had enough for today. I'll grab some orderlies – Saunders and Jensen oughta be about right."

Whew. I was relieved – even though Johnny would be out cold, I just didn't think I wanted to be there.

"Waitaminnit," complained Johnny, "you can't kickim ou', 'm too scared!"

"It's all right, Johnny, I'll stay till you're out, how 'bout that."

"Thassokay." He suddenly looked like he had an important thought. "Uh-oh, Roy, bucket!"

I grabbed a basin just in time.

"Shih."

I got him some water to rinse his mouth out.

Johnny was quiet while the orthopod and the nurse got the equipment and supplies ready, but then he piped up again.

"Roy, don' fergeh Dissie's party." He frowned. "I'm gon' be _late_."

The party. Well, I _had_ forgotten it. Wasn't exactly foremost in my mind. I'd have to see if I could foist it off on 10s, or 8s – I _really_ wasn't in the mood.

"No, Johnny, I won't forget. Dixie'll have her party."

"'kay, buh don' teller. Sprise!" He closed his eyes for just a minute – probably dozed off – but then, just as suddenly, he was back again. "Roy, you pull me outta there?"

"No, Cap and Marco did."

"Oh. Tell 'em thangz." He faded out again, then back in. "Scared, Roy. Don' go."

"I won't."

Doc Henry was ready. Two burly orderlies had been summoned by the nurse. "Mr. Gage, I'm going to give you something that's going to make you very sleepy. Don't fight it, okay? In an hour or so you'll wake up, and you'll have a cast on that leg, and you'll be feeling a lot better, okay?"

"Ever ya say, doc. Le's jus' do it." He closed his eyes as the diazepam came on board, and they stayed closed.

"Mr. Gage?" asked the Doc, a minute or so later. "I think he's out; Mr. DeSoto, why don't you try."

"Johnny?" Nothing. "ROLL CALL!" Still nothing. I turned to the Doc. "Yep, he's out."

The nurse, who'd appeared along with the orderlies, checked his vitals. "Pulse 55, BP 110/65, respirations 8."

I frowned. He was really down deep.

"Okay, that's uh, a bit deeper than I was going for," said Dr. Henry. "I don't like this so much. Nurse, intubate, and get him on a vent for now. We'll take it out as soon as he starts to fight it."

"Uh, doc, I'm gonna wait outside for this part. Can you let me know when you're done?" I wasn't normally squeamish – you can't be, in my job – but I just really didn't want to hear the sounds that bones make when they're being set. Not when they're the bones of someone I know.

"Geoff, if you don't need me, I'll head out too," said Brackett. Was he getting freaked out too?

"Okay, Kel. I'll look for you, Mr. DeSoto, when we're done here."

"Thanks, Doc. I'll be around." The two of us left Johnny in the hands of Dr. Henry – and two huge orderlies – and headed back into the hallway.

"Hm," said Brackett, "I'll make a note in his chart that depressant drugs seem to hit him awfully hard."

"I guess maybe that's why he doesn't hardly drink at all," I replied. "But I also wouldn't be surprised if they wear off fast, too – I mean, look how he eats." It was unbelievable, really, how he could plow through a huge meal, then claim to be starved two hours later.

"Well, we'll keep an eye on him." said Brackett. "But, for now, I'd better get back to work. And you, Roy, you should find the couch in the staff lounge and take a real break."

So I did. I didn't even bother with my turnout coat – just lay down on the couch, and as soon as my eyes were closed, I was asleep.

* * *

It seemed like only seconds later when someone was shaking my shoulder. "Roy? Roy, wake up, man."

For a minute I couldn't figure out where I was; then it all came back in a rush. "Chet, what's going on? Any news on Johnny?"

"Well, seein' as how I just got here, I was hopin' _you_ could tell _me_. I just brought the squad in; the other guys are on their way."

"Huh, did we get stood down?"

"Yeah, Riley stood us down when Johnny got hurt – didn't you know?"

It hadn't really occurred to me. I guess I was thinking about other things. But not about IV's, apparently. And then I remembered my promise to Johnny – the party.

"Chet, I promised Johnny – we have to make sure that party still happens."

"Relax, friend; Chester B. Kelly is on top of things. I called Pete from B-shift as soon as I got here, and they're on it. He's rounding up the guys to come over here right now. So don't worry about a thing." He paused. "Or are there things we _should_ be worrying about? You're looking dire, DeSoto, and I don't like it. Spit it out – what's up with Gage?"

I sighed heavily. I didn't really want to confide in Chet. Not that I had anything against him; it was just that he could be a bit, well, insensitive at times. "He was pretty loopy when I saw him – real doped up. It's pretty bad, but the ortho doc thinks he won't have to do surgery. They're setting his leg right now – or they were, when I came in here."

"Ah, so that's why you're in here. I would wanna miss that show, too." Chet shuddered violently.

"Well, they knocked him out pretty good – I still couldn't take it, though."

"No sir, me neither!" Chet agreed. "There's lots of reasons why I never wanna be a paramedic, and one of 'em is the ick factor, and one of 'em is yellin' people. I'll tell ya, Roy, I really felt for you this afternoon."

_Yeah, so did I. _"I practically got him killed, you know." Well, so much for not confiding in Chet. Where had _that_ come from?

Chet wrinkled his nose. "Whaddaya mean? Looked to me like ya did everything you were s'posed to, not that I'd know, but..."

"Chet, I was the one that sent him upstairs to check for occupants! And then he ripped out his IV, and I forgot to replace it!"

Chet waggled a finger at me. "No way, DeSoto. Don't let Cap catch you talkin' like that. Okay, if you made a medical mistake, that's between you and Brackett. But _someone_ had to check the top floor, and you know as well as I do that Gage _always_ goes upstairs, even when it's his call. Plus, he's faster than anyone else – if it'd been you upstairs, and him downstairs with that old lady, guess what? You'd be dead, and we'd be planning a funeral, not a birthday party."

I hadn't thought of it that way. I hadn't really had time to think of that piece of the equation at all. It made sense, but I wasn't ready to let my guilt go. Not yet.

"Yeah, that's one way to look at it, I suppose," was all I could muster up, on such short notice.

"It's the _only_ way," Chet retorted. "I dunno, maybe Brackett will rip you a new one for missin' the IV, but no sense in ripping a _third_ one for yourself about who went upstairs and who stayed downstairs. All of us put our lives at risk every damned day on this job, so don't you go hogging up guilt that's not even yours to claim."

For once, Chet was actually making sense. No goofing around, no jokes – just straight talk. Didn't know he even knew how to do that.

"I guess you're right." Still not ready to stop thinking about guilt, but at least I would stop talking about it. I didn't have the juice for it, anyhow. All my energy was drained.

"C'mon, man. I'll buy you a real coffee, instead of this lounge swill." Chet put out a hand to haul me to my feet.

* * *

We returned to the ER waiting room with five "real" coffees – not that the cafeteria stuff was any better than the "lounge swill" – just in time for the rest of the crew to show up. I had to admit, the five of us in the waiting room, all in our turnout coats, were a pretty impressive sight. There was no doubt who we were, and no doubt who we were there for.

"Roy, what's the news?" asked Cap.

I filled him in as best I could. "Well, he's heavily sedated while they're setting and casting his leg, but the orthopedist should be coming out soon. They got him some pain meds right after we got in – he was pretty out of it when I saw him, but he knew where he was and what had happened. And that's all I know."

Just then, Doctor Henry came out from Treatment Three. "Mr. DeSoto? Oh, hello, gentlemen. Mr. Gage is in good shape, very good. His leg is set, he's casted, and as soon as he wakes up, I'll send him on up to the orthopedics floor."

Everyone exhaled sighs of relief. An unlikely voice spoke up first. "Can we see him?" asked Mike Stoker.

"Ah, he's still coming up out of the sedation – and I don't really know how uncomfortable he's going to be when he wakes up, so no, not yet. Later this evening would be better – say, after 6 p.m. We should have a good handle on what his pain medication needs will be by that point, okay?"

Then he looked at me, and continued. "Mr. DeSoto, I think it would be helpful for you to be there when he's waking up – unless you need to go back on duty, of course."

I looked at Captain Stanley. "Go ahead, Roy; we're stood down till 2200, and you're off the rest of the shift – no subs available."

"All right. Cap, could you call Joanne? She and the kids are planning on coming over here anyhow, for Dix's party, but she'd want to know, for sure, what happened." I felt terrible that I hadn't called already. It felt like I'd just gotten here, but when I looked at the clock on the wall, I realized it had been two hours since I brought Johnny in.

"Sure thing, Roy. Guys, let's go see what we can do to help B-shift, since we're off for now anyhow." The guys trudged off, wishing they were in my shoes, while I was wishing I were in theirs.

It wasn't that I didn't want to see Johnny – that wasn't it at all. It was just that I was drained, and tired, and used up, and didn't have anything left to give – not a thing. And I didn't know what I would do if he woke up screaming, like he did in the ambulance.

But at that point, if I needed to go negative on my reserves, that's just how it was gonna be. So, I reluctantly followed Doc Henry back to good ol' Treatment 3, to see my partner. My best friend. Who I nearly got killed today, two different ways. No matter what Chet said.

**THE END.**

A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Constructive criticism is really helpful. If you don't feel like leaving a criticism in the reviews, feel free to PM me!


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